To Thank for Peace
by reminiscent-afterthought
Summary: She still had the important things: her life, her work, her love: her cats. And that was her peace, tentative throughout the war when Voldermort or his supporters may come at any time and destroy it for simple spite, but stable now. And she, and many others, had those who spent sleepless nights staring at blood on their hands and holes in their hearts, to thank.


**A/N** : Written for the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Term 3 – Charms Assignment 2. Task: Write about a character striving to live normal after The Second Wizarding War.

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 **To Thank for Peace**

For those who hadn't fought, the peace that followed the Second Wizarding War was just that: peace. But for those who had fought, and lost, it was a cruel, cruel, thing.

Some still had families. Many called the Weasleys lucky, one of the luckiest. They may have lost a son in the war but they'd gained much more. Ronald Weasley, along with Hermione Granger and Harry Potter, had received an Order of Merlin, First Class for their "services to the wizarding world." Molly Weasley had gained one as well, for "ridding the world of one of its darkest women." Ginny Weasley had returned to Hogwarts for her seventh year to enter its Hall of Fame. And Percy Weasley was surprised but pleased to find himself shunted into a respectable junior job in Law Enforcement. And that was not to mention the rest of the Weasleys: all those red haired men and women who collected to mourn one son's death.

Some entire families had been wiped out. Some children left orphans. Wives left widows. Parents left childless. Some had been lost fighting for their cause. Others just lost because they'd existed, and those were the truly cruel ones, and the ones many forgot. Because those were also the names not embroiled in gold and hung on a banner for the world to see. They were the ones who died silently.

And there were the fighters who had survived. Mourning losses, struggling to rebuild, struggling to wash off the blood that irrevocably stained their hands – that had stained their hands the moment they chose to fight, the moment they cast that first lethal spell.

And then there were those who'd tried to get on with their lives and had succeeded. Those who'd chosen not to fight. Those who couldn't fight. Those who'd been ignorant – and those who'd simply hung on to their livelihood and prayed the war would not sweep them away as well.

Mrs Figg was a bit of all of them. She survived the war, certainly, and with little damage. She had no family to have lost, and no magic to have fought with. But she did have friends: friends she'd had to have sparse contact with because of the war and now she had no contact with them at all. Friends like most of the Order: like Remus Lupin who'd had a nose for the best cats when she'd begun her breeding business. Like Amelia Bones who'd been made up of some stern stuff, and had seen to it that she wouldn't be ostracized for her status – or, at least, she'd be able to make a living in the Wizarding World regardless. Friends like Albus Dumbledore who trusted her with an important task even if she was so useless compared to the rest of them – but the lack of magic had turned out to be a godsend, due to the Ministry's idiocy.

But that was all over now. Privet Drive which she'd kept an eye on no longer held anything significant. The Dursleys had moved back in but Harry Potter had not moved back with them. Her work for Albus was done there. Her cats were still thriving, still being requested – sales had dropped a little in the final year of the war but demands had risen again. It seemed parents wanted to soothe their children, fill holes in hearts. And pets were great for that. Her cats were great for that.

They kept her busy. They kept her old life going on. She knew she hadn't lost very much at all – the worst year of the war had seen her looking after her cats in an untouched Muggle neighbourhood. Sometimes, she wondered how it had gone untouched. Surely Voldermort had known where Harry Potter's house was – she'd seen the spell fire herself. But maybe the place held no value to him. Or maybe other matters had attracted him.

It didn't matter. Physically, the war had changed very little for her. Only the friends she barely saw were permanently erased from her life. Life was what it had been before the war, and it continued in that manner. The main difference was there was no Harry Potter to babysit but he was seventeen now anyhow, far too old. Instead, her cats found a new friend in a newborn at number seven. A muggleborn witch, and one that would thrive in the new world. And she could be at peace with that sort of life because her hands were still clean. She'd seen spell fire from afar one night. She'd seen Dementors in her street two years prior. And that was the extent of her horrors. She did not hold a wand. She did not fire an offensive spell, watch an enemy fall and never get up again. She did not see an ally, a friend, fall in front of her with sightless eyes. She did not have a part of her family blasted from the world. She had friends, yes, but they were also friends she saw little of, and she was old. She still had the important things: her life, her work, her love: her cats. And that was her peace, tentative throughout the war when Voldermort or his supporters may come at any time and destroy it for simple spite, but stable now.

And she, and many others, had those who spent sleepless nights staring at blood on their hands and holes in their hearts, to thank.


End file.
